


Drink to the Dead, Pray for the Living

by Hantastic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A drunk Chris Argent is a sassy Chris Argent, Allison mourning bc I can't believe the show skipped that, Angst and Humor, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, post 3b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-10 00:39:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2004195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hantastic/pseuds/Hantastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris copes with the loss of Allison in his own way...and manages (kinda).<br/>Stiles comes to terms with murdering dozens of people...and doesn't manage so well.<br/>Throw a fretful Derek into the mix with some alcohol, sass and snow and we got ourselves a fanfiction.<br/>(mostly Sterek but with a lil' bit of Chris Argent POV thrown in chapter 1 because I don't think Chris gets nearly enough credit as he should)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chris couldn’t decide which was worse – attending funerals, or planning them. Still, he supposed he’d had enough practice; funerals should be old hat by now.

It had been a quiet affair. He could tolerate the publicity of Kate’s, grinding his teeth and getting on with the endless stream of cameras that flashed in his face. He could manage the sympathetic glances and hushed murmurs of Victoria’s, despite the itchiness their pity inflicted on his skin.

But this...

A parent can’t comprehend toleration or management when burying their child.

Chris loosened his tie and discarded it on the coffee table; sinking into the couch with a sigh.

It had been three days since Allison’s death but Chris hadn’t allowed time to dwell. Mourning came after the job was _done_ : distractions were out of the question. He’d had that drilled in from an early age and it had, thankfully, stuck by him.

_I’m nothing if not professional._

He smirked involuntarily. It appeared numbness was wearing off and the Gallows’ humour was setting in. Excellent. At least he’d be mildly entertained as he spiralled down the pit of despair.

The quietness of the funeral had in fact, primarily been on his part. He hadn’t spoken a word throughout the entire procedure. Admittedly, he’d spoken with Isaac afterwards, and was saddened to hear the boy was leaving, unable to cope with the grief and in need of a fresh start. They’d clasped each other on the arm in a manly fashion and bid farewell without a single tear shed. Although he’d never admit it, towards the end, Isaac had been like a son to him and somehow it made Chris feel like he was losing two children, rather than one.

Each surviving member of the pack had gone up and said a few tearful words at the graveside – even Derek had managed to mutter a quick ‘Hunter or not, she was the best of all of us’ after Scott’s frankly heart-wrenching eulogy.

The only one who hadn’t spoken was Stilinski. The pallor of his skin and dark circles under his eyes gave Chris no doubt of the boy’s ailment.

Guilt’s a heartless bitch. Chris should know considering how often he wakes to the echoes of dying screams and the rancid stench of charred flesh.

Of course those had been Kate’s crimes but Chris still felt a sense of responsibility. He should have known, should have seen it coming.

He’d failed both as a hunter, and as a brother.

As a husband. A father.

...God, he needed a drink.

Broken glass crunched underfoot as he made his way to the cabinet. The day of Allison’s death may have brought on a _minor_ emotional slip-up. The living room bore the wrath of a grieving father for a solid hour before Chris had dried his eyes, grabbed his sawn-off shotgun and walked back out like nothing had happened.

He’d yet to see the point of cleaning up.

 _Leave it as it is._ He’d convinced himself. _The_ _pathetic fallacy’s rather fitting, wouldn’t you say?_

The Merlot winked at him from the shelf. This had been Victoria’s favourite.

Shoving the bottle under his arm, he grabbed one of the two glasses that remained fully intact and made his way back to the couch.

Before he knew it two thirds of the bottle were gone. The dark liquor swirled around at his fingertips like blood and Chris watched it, mesmerised. Wasn’t wine meant to represent the blood of Christ or whatever? It meant something religious, he was sure of it. For him though, he supposed it should symbolise blood. The blood of his family? His victims? His _own_ blood?

He narrowed his eyes at the last suggestion.

If he was a vampire, would that make him a cannibal? No wait, that’s when you consume your own species, not necessarily yourself. Perhaps just self-destructive then.

Just as he was contemplating rummaging about in the Bestiary to search for a case-file on any self-destructive vampires, the doorbell rang.

Chris frowned, eying the clock.

Just past midnight.

Chris frowned harder, eying the dwindling wine.

...Was he drunk enough to order pizza without remembering it yet?

_Ah, fuck it._

“C’mon in!” he called. “If it’s pizza don’t come any closer unless you’ve held the olives this time. If you’re here to kill me though I’m gonna have to finish my wine first because it’s Merlot so...”

He sobered at the sight of the Stilinski boy hovering in the doorway; awkwardly shuffling his feet and rubbing the back of his neck so hard it could cause a rash.

“Um, hey Chris.” Stiles lifted the hand from his neck in greeting before shoving it into his pocket along with the other in what Chris assumed was a poor attempt to stop them fidgeting. “Sorry, were you expecting some– did you order pizza?”

“I don’t know.” Chris confessed with a helpless shrug. He tried not to seem too disappointed. Pizza would have been nice.

Stilinski’s gaze wandered to take in the rest of the dishevelled room, eyes widening as he drank in the sight.

“I just uh,” Stiles cleared his throat. “Came over to see how you were coping, I mean, how you were doing, I’m sure you’re coping just fine, better than most people would I mean, you’re pretty tough come to think of it, kinda like well-worn leather – not that I mean you’re well-worn as in you’re old, I mean-”

Chris set down the wine glass and the boy started at the noise. Jeez, he was more jumpy than a deer in hunting season.

“Quit rambling and take a seat Stilinski,” he gestured openly to the couch opposite. “Might have to brush off some of the glass mind, but other than that you should be alright.”

Stiles huffed at that.

“What, no booby traps?” he joked, doing as Chris suggested.

“Nah, they’re in the armchair.”

Despite reassurance, Stiles perched on the settee as if it would jump up and bite him but Chris doubted that had much to do with the furnishing itself. They were all a little on edge – Stiles more excusably so than most after all he’d been through.

“So,” Chris settled back, throwing his arms wide. “Like how I’m coping, huh?”

Stiles bit his lip, eyes drifting towards the table.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Ever the perceptive one Stilinski, the Hale pack found a real bright bulb of a brain with you.” Oh god, was he _slurrin_ g? Chris swore he was rolling his ‘r’s and bumbling his ‘b’s more than usual.

“Can you pour me a glass?”

Chris blinked. Of all the words he’d expected to next come spilling out of Stilinski’s mouth, those had been some of the least likely.

“Woah there son,” he began, but Stiles cut him off.

“It’s just I don’t keep much in the house because my dad, well...he had a drinking problem after my mum died and I didn’t want him to have a relapse so...”

Straightening, Chris held up his hand.

“Stop right there. First off, Stiles I’m pretty sure you _drove_ here. Second, you’re underage and third...this is Merlot.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow.

“...Merlot?”

Chris nodded sombrely.

“I like Merlot.”

He paused.

“...I like it...a Mer- _lot_.”

Apparently somewhere along the line Gallows’ humour had a tricky habit of morphing into terrible puns (who knew?) Chris noted as his own roaring laughter settled down to a light chuckle.

“Seriously though,” he said, wiping away a tear. “No alcohol.”

“But-”

“ _No_ , Stiles. Tell you what – if you don’t drink, I won’t drink, that sound fair?”

The boy paused and then nodded. As Chris moved to put the bottle away he swore a fleeting grin passed Stiles’ face making him wonder if this was the boy’s plan all along.

Huh, not bad. With thinking like that, he might have made a half decent hunter.

“You didn’t say anything at the funeral.” Chris remarked once it was clear Stiles was uncertain how to proceed.

“Oh um...no.” he swallowed harshly. “I couldn’t really find the right words to say I guess.”

Chris grunted in agreement.

“You blame yourself.”

Stiles looked up. The hunter had not meant it as a question.

“You shouldn’t you know.”

Stiles laughed weakly.

“Why? Because I wasn’t ‘ _in my right mind’_? Because I was possessed by a monster, unable to control it once left to its own devices rattling about in my big ol’ brain?” He tapped the side of his skull for emphasis, shaking it gently.

“Werewolves deal with that every time the full moon rolls around. Don’t see many of them mindlessly killing half the town, let alone their friends.”

“That’s different.” Chris snapped. This was ridiculous. “You know that’s different Stiles, you can’t beat yourself up about this. The Nogitsune controlled you just as much as it controlled the Oni.”

Stiles looked like he was going to argue further but stopped at the last second. Instead he just nodded, twisting his fingers together as if physically forcing the words back down his throat.

“Thank-you.” Stiles met his gaze again, sincerity in his dark eyes.

Chris furrowed his brow in confusion.

“For what?”

“For trying to kill me.”

In all his years of hunting, Chris Argent had never been thanked for attempted murder. But now that it was coming from a seventeen-year-old boy, Chris would rather it’d never come at all.

“Stiles-”

“No, let me finish.” Something about the boy’s manner stilled Chris’ tongue, allowing Stiles to continue. “My Dad could never have done it, and I doubt my friends could either but...” Stiles sighed. “I don’t want to hurt people-”

“You won’t-”

The boy’s eyes flashed and Chris went quiet.

“I don’t want to hurt people. So, if a time ever comes where I am hurting people again...I just wanted to know that you’d still be willing to...follow through with it.”

Chris felt winded.

“Stiles, I don’t think this is really the time-”

“I know, and I’m sorry but...I-I just need to know okay? ... _Please.”_

He drew a shaky breath.

“I can’t hurt anyone _else_ Chris.”

Surrounded by shattered glass in the dark room, in that moment Stiles looked no older than ten – like a lost little boy at the grocery store. The sight tugged at something parental within Chris and it was painful; still raw with the loss of his little girl. It reminded him of how Allison looked when she’d found the truth – bombarding him with frantic questions, eyes wide with confusion whilst his smug sister smiled on from the sidelines.

Before he knew what he was doing, Chris gave Stiles a short, sharp nod of confirmation.

The sigh of relief from Stiles brought him back to the present, eyes cloudy as they fought back memories that hit too close to home.

 _“Thank-you.”_ Stiles said again, standing and making his way over to the door, eyes never once leaving Chris. “I just...I really needed to hear that right now.”

Chris nodded again; the familiar numbness thinking of Allison brought on seeping back to the recesses of his mind.

“Stiles.” He called as the boy turned to the door. He looked back questioningly.

“Drive safe. Be careful.”

Stiles nodded.

“You too Chris. You too.”

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Chris dragged out his phone and hit _two_ on speed dial. He made a mental note to jump the number up to one, since it was unlikely Allison would be picking up any time soon, even if this was Beacon Hills.

It picked up after two rings.

“Hello?”

“Derek, it’s Chris. I’m worried about Stilinski.”

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice rose in panic. “W-what is the Nogitsune back or is he hurt or-?”

“No, Derek, nothing like that. Just...keep an eye on him would you?”

There was a pause, as if Derek was considering if it was even worth supplying an answer for that particular question.

Apparently, he decided it wasn’t and answered with a question of his own.

“Why are you worried about Stiles?”

“He came to visit me, he just left...”

“ _What? Alone?_ It’s like one in the morning, it’s _snowing outside_ , is he driving in this-?”

“Look Derek,” Chris could feel a headache coming on and decided maybe it _was_ possible to have too much Merlot in one evening. Especially when paired with anxious youths. “...I just don’t think he’s in a good place right now.”

Chris felt rather than heard Derek’s sharp breath intake on the other end of the line.

“I know.” The werewolf muttered, somehow sounding twice his age with those two words. “I know, I’m...I’m working on it...I’ll do what I can.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Derek paused again, and Chris wondered whether this was his cue to hang up.

Just as he was considering whether it was impolite to abruptly end a conversation with your werewolf-enemy-turned-ally turned-possible-friend without so much as a _‘bye then!’_ Derek mumbled something else.

“And what about you Chris?”

“What about me _what_?”

“...Where are you right now?”

Chris sighed, rubbing his stubbled jaw. His reply travelled wearily down the phone line.

“I’m where I’ve always been Derek.”

He gestured openly to the carnage about him.

“I’m _home_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, this chapter is just a brief interlude building up to the final chapter, which is gonna be the bulk of the entire work itself (and it's gonna be allllll Sterek, don't worry haha)  
> Thank-you to anyone whose reading this, I really appriciate it and hope you enjoy continuing to do so :)

_Well I suppose that went better than expected._ Stiles thought to himself, as he pulled away from Casa de Argent.

Weighing up the odds on the drive over he’d decided it’d be a toss-up between Argent roaring obscenities whilst using Stiles for target practice and finding him in a puddle of tears with guttural sobs shaking his body, repetitively muttering how alone he was.

But despite each grimly prospect, Stiles had been resolute that he would _not_ turn around. He had to know Chris was coping because at the back of his mind a third option niggled about; an unspeakable one.

The possibility that Chris’ puddle would be made up of something darker than tears gave Stiles the strength he needed to carry on.

Thankfully Chris...well, he wasn’t doing _great_ exactly, but he was certainly taking things in his stride. The alcohol had been a bit of a worry but Stiles hoped the practice he’d had with his Dad might have paid off tonight at least. Although he did make a mental note to see what all of this fuss was about fucking Merlot, Argent seemed ready to write an ode about it, jeez.

Without the focus of making sure Chris was okay, Stiles felt his hands losing steadiness at the wheel. Willing them to stop, he tried to think about something else – _anything_ else before-

_Before you think about all the people you’ve hurt? All the lives you’ve taken? Yes Stiles, why don’t we ponder a little longer on that, shall we?_

“Stop it.” Stiles muttered, his grip tightening. “You’re not real – I’ve read about this; you’re my subconscious allowing my fear to manifest itself in a psychological format.”

_That may be true, but if it is, doesn’t that mean I’m you? That this is ALL you Stiles? The Nogitsune may be dead and gone but the real killer is sitting right here in this car._

“Oh my god,” he groaned. “I hate myself sometimes – am I really that melodramatic?”

_Yes. Yes you are._

_“_ Perfect.” Stiles’ tone was falsely chipper. “I suppose it should be expected though, my life being a _horror film_ and all.”

His subconscious went quiet again and Stiles huffed in relief. Maybe he’d get some sleep tonight after all.

_It’s true though,_ the voice continued and Stiles cursed inwardly. He should have known it took a lot more than _that_ to shut himself up. _Everyone’s thinking it – not just you._

_Stiles murdered Allison. Murdered Aiden. Stiles tried to massacre the entire population of Beacon Hills because he was weak. He was weak enough to let the darkness in to devour because truthfully, he didn’t even try to stop it._

“That’s not _true.”_ Stiles grit his teeth and tried counting backwards from ten.

_He was a coward. Useless up until the moment he wasn’t – up until the moment he was no longer just a weakness._

Stile fought uselessly against the inevitable panic attack, heart pounding in his ears and the familiar constrictions of his chest like an alarm telling him it was _too late, too late_.

_“STOP IT!”_

_Not just a weakness. Not just a liability..._

_But a threat._

Stiles slammed on the brakes and threw the engine switch off with the parking brake on. He needed air and he needed it now before the black dots started swirling with the snowflakes falling from the night’s sky high above but creeping ever closer to oppress and smother his resolve.

He’d stopped right on the edge of the forest, he noticed, making his way into the fortress of trees; counting aloud once he no longer felt like he was going to collapse, trying focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

_Left. Right. Left. Right. Ten, nine, eight, seven. Left. Right. Left. Right. Six, five, four, three._

As Stiles allowed his lungs to fill up, the scents of the forest sank into his nostrils as a peaceful balm.

An underlying earthiness to ground him. A freshness that willed him to breathe deeper, to take in more. And then there was that indescribable sense of just feeling like...like he was _home_. Stiles wasn’t sure if it was because of all the pack time spent in the forest (whether it be training, playing or hunting for Beacon Hills latest rotting corpse) or if forests just had that effect on him.

He felt _free_. That itching sense of wanting to run for no reason other than because he _could_ was something Stiles only felt here. Werewolf or not, he understood the appeal. True freedom was hard to come by after all.

Thinking better to attempt running in this weather, Stiles slowed himself down to a halt. The stars twinkled in demand for admiration, and Stiles was never one to deny beautiful things his rapt attention.

Hunkering down at the root of thick oak, Stiles settled back and breathed - slow and deep. Here he felt peaceful in a way he hadn’t for a long time. It was good, peace. He’d never been one for it himself – unable to sit still since practically emerging from the womb (although he had been told he’d been a kicker, so perhaps even before then). But the events of the past few months allowed him a new-found appreciation for peace.

Calm and tranquil were words Stiles Stilinski was sure he’d never be described by but he could allow himself to pretend, just for a moment at least. Here he could be at one with the forest, the stars, and the snow.

...Here he could find _peace._

Stiles closed his eyes, and let peace consume him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have it - the final chapter and the source of the sterek. Thank-you to anyone whose read this and I hope you enjoy it and this chapter doesn't disappoint since it's what the other two chapters have really been building up to :)  
> Here's my tumblr if anyone's interested: http://thatfineline.tumblr.com/

_...Murmuring...._

Stiles twitched.

_...Murmuring intensifies...._

Was someone saying something? He really couldn’t be sure, layers of sleep clung to him like swaddles to a babe and he snuggled in deeper, willing the voice to go away because the quiet was strangely comforting and he didn’t want to let go just yet.

_“STILES!”_

A harsh pain on the side of his face stung Stiles out of his slumber.

“Ah... _ow_.”

“Shit,” the voice sounded foggy but relieved. He fought against the heaviness in his eyelids to see where it was coming from but apparently they didn’t seem quite ready to open just yet.

“D’nt jus flutter uselessly,” he instructed them firmly. “Y’re not a teenage girl – be manly lashhz.”

“What the hell are you rambling on about?” Something prodded him in the arm. “ _Shit_ , you’re freezing!”

All of a sudden Stiles felt himself flying and protested against the idea of leaving his bed.

“M’comfy, was I on a cloud?”

He felt himself tucked up against a heater and made a satisfied grumble. Clouds were soft but this was nicer; warm and squishy. The heater began to fly again and Stiles hummed happily for a moment until he felt himself jolting; gently at first but then increasing in intensity until his jaw hurt.

“R we experiencin’ some turbulence?” he asked the squishy heater, deciding why the hell not – if heaters could talk and fly then they could damn well answer his questions too.

 _“Stiles!”_ He wondered why the heater sounded so frantic, and why it sounded so darn familiar. “Please, just open your eyes okay? I need you to stay with me; it’s just a little bit further.”

“But my eyelids aren’t manly!” he protested, weakly attempting to lift them and to his surprise, this time it worked.

He blinked up in shock.

 _“Dereeeekkkkkk!”_ He managed a sloppy grin despite his chattering teeth. “Y’re not a flying heater!”

The following laugh sounded broken and relieved all at once.

“That’s very perceptive of you...” Derek muttered and Stiles noticed how his eyes blended in with the stars. Was it just him or were they more sparkly than usual? Almost as if he’d been on the verge of crying, which of course, was ridiculous.

“M’a very percept’ve person. Chris ses so.”

“Chris?” Derek sounded distracted, like something was wrong. Stiles wondered if anything had happened and a familiar spike of panic made him jerk violently – whimpering when the movement made him see red. The peace had left now and everything hurt – his whole body was on fire.

Derek kept tugging him closer even when he tried to get away. He knew Derek was only trying to help but the heat was hurting and he told him so.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, it’ll go away soon I promise.” Derek’s voice strained and Stiles frowned at him.

“Are they all right?” his voice was so soft that if it hadn’t been for werewolf hearing he doubted Derek would have heard.

“Who?”

“The others.” His heart thumped unsteadily at the thought.

_“...I didn’t hurt them again did I?”_

Stiles thought he heard Derek make a pained noise somewhere between a wounded dog and a weak-willed supply teacher but it might have just been the wind.

“They’re fine – let’s just worry about you for now.” Stiles felt himself being lowered onto something cushy but less warm and his shivers deepened at the loss of heat. A warm, smoky blanket was tucked around him and the cold settled a little as he breathed in the musky scent.

A loud rumble made Stiles realise he was in a car. Derek’s car in fact.

“Where ‘r we goin’?”

“Well we sure as hell aren’t going back to your place,” Derek muttered, turning the heater (the _real_ heater this time) up to high as the car moved off. “You’re lips are practically blue, you look like-” Derek cut himself off, shaking his head and repressing a shudder. “Your father can’t see you like this. We’re going to the loft.”

Stiles pulled a face.

“Will Peter be there?”                                               

“No, Peter will not be there, thank god for small mercies. He said he had a date tonight.”

Unable to stop himself, Stiles snorted and Derek shot him a look.

“A _date_? That’s definitely code for ‘sneaky skulking’ if y’re askin’ me. No one in their right mind’d date him.” Stiles hesitated, brain catching up with his mouth. “That isn’t to say it’s a looks thing – I mean, Hale genes seem impossible to fuse in any combination other than ‘Fucking-Hell-This-Shit’s-Hotter-Than-The-Motherfucking-Sun’ which of course is deeply ironic because, heh, werewolves and moons and stuff.”

Derek’s lips twitched upwards but he didn’t say anything other than: “Of course your mouth would be the first thing to defrost.”

Stiles fidgeted experimentally; a look of contemplation drawn on his features.

“Hmm...I don’t think my mouth was the _first_ thing.”

The following mortification written on Derek’s face made Stiles realise what he’d just insinuated.

“Oh, god no, Derek – I meant my _toes_! Jeez dude, get your mind out of the gutter!”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were thinking it though,”

“You were the one talking about hot gene combinations - I thought innuendo was a running theme! I’m sorry if I can’t keep track of the many spindles of thought your tangents conjoin to!”

“Can’t keep track? Derek I’m pretty sure half my brain cells are still frozen....although could you stop using big words; my head’s starting to throb a little,”

Derek threw him a look that screamed _‘welcome to my world’_ but left it at that – silence falling in the car whilst Stiles tried to curl up tighter in the blanket (that he belatedly realised was Derek’s jacket) to conserve precious body heat until they ground to a halt. He made an attempt to squint out the windows but the blizzard was too thick and heavy to see anything except a writhing mass of white.

Stiles gave a low whistle.

“I was out in _that_?” he asked, despite the fact Derek was walking around the car to his side.

Once the door opened however, he was answered with the deepest of Derek glowers.

“ _Yes._ ” He bit out. “For over an hour if Chris’ phone call is anything to judge by.”

_An hour?_

Stiles looked outside again. An hour sitting in that and he must have looked...well let’s just say if Derek’s wolfy senses hadn’t picked out his heartbeat he might have assumed the worst. The grim set in Derek’s jaw confirmed it but as Stiles opened his mouth to say something, he was lifted up out of the car and bundled into the man’s arms.

Stiles made a squeak of protest.

“Derek, I’m not a damsel – put me _down,_ I can walk in by myself.”

Derek’s eyebrows did their _‘are you being serious right now?’_ brand of gymnastics and Stiles resisted the urge to pet them soothingly like disgruntled ferrets.

“Stiles, you only started wiggling your _toes_ two minutes ago; I don’t think standing’s an option, let alone walking.”

“But I need my legs to assert manly authority so my eyelashes can take notes.”

“Suck it up.” The fact that Derek no longer even seemed fazed by the nonsense Stiles was prattling about probably spoke volumes about their relationship.

The next five minutes of being manhandled (albeit gently) into the loft and arranged on the couch (leather – could he _ever_ expect anything different? Stiles bet cows quaked in fear at the mere mention of Derek Hale’s name) were mostly managed in silence, at least on Derek’s part. Stiles’ incessant babbling was met with the occasional grunt or dampened smirk but it was nothing like the regular back-and-forth he and Derek usually had going on.

Now Stiles found himself cocooned in a multitude of blankets arranged in a nest-like formation in a crook of the couch. He made sure to pout at Derek whenever he turned from the counter to check on him and realised he probably resembled a rather sullen burrito yet Derek didn’t even crack a smile. If their positions were reversed Stiles’d bet there’d already be a full album on his phone entitled _‘Sour wolf cocoon, bring on the full_ moon’ but Derek wouldn’t even speak to him, let alone make jokes at his expense.

He was shaken from his thoughts by a warm hand on his blanketed arm.

“Here,” Derek cleared his throat and thrust a lilac mug into his hands. “It’ll help get your blood flow going.”

“I never understood that saying.” Stiles gratefully cradled the mug. “ _’get the blood flow going’_ like it ever stopped.”

Derek levelled him a look as he settled down next to him.

“Trust me – you didn’t hear your heartbeat out there...the phrase is appropriate.” Derek shuddered and Stiles wondered if he even realised he was doing it.

As he looked down to gently cool the drink, Stiles made a sound of delight.

“ _Aww!_ You put whipped cream and lil’ mini marshmallows in it and everything.” He beamed at Derek before taking a cautious sip and moaned.

“Sweet, sweet baby Jesus that’s good – this cocoa is literally liquid happiness,” Stiles could sense Derek’s eyebrows softening at the compliment so continued. “Seriously Derek; do werewolves get crazy good cocoa-making powers as well or what?”

Derek shrugged, smiling tenderly and dodging Stiles’ gaze.

“My Mom taught me,” His tone didn’t sound sad, just wistful. He huffed in amusement. “Laura and I refused to let anyone make it except her. Eventually she got so fed up with our nagging that she just taught us to do it ourselves.”

When Derek’s eyes darted back Stiles smiled at him.

“Ah, that’d be it then,” he sighed. “Hale genetic wonders strike again! I knew it couldn’t be something all werewolves had – Scott’s cocoa is _literally_ the worst thing I’ve ever tasted and I’ve thrown up mouldy bandages so I should really know.”

Derek scrunched up his nose distastefully.

“Peter puts cinnamon in his cocoa.” He scoffed, folding his arms in a display of Cocoa-alpha dominance. “Obviously the Hale cocoa-mastery gene bypassed him completely.”

“Yeah, but in cocoa-mastery’s defence could you really blame it? Peter would _definitely_ abuse his awe-inspiring beverage-making powers and use them for evil in some way, maybe like, I don’t know use it to control the werewolf king or somethi-”

 _“Werewolf king?”_ Derek laughed and this time it sounded genuine. “I’ve never heard anything more ridiculous in my entire life!”

“Yeah, that’s coming from the guy who spent his childhood chasing cats and catching Frisbees in his mouth...”

A splash of red tinged Derek’s cheeks.

“That only happened _one_ time,” he muttered. “I can’t believe Peter told you about that...”

Stiles gaped at him and slowly but surely Derek realised his error but it was too late because the boy was already howling.

“Oh. My. God! You actually...I can’t believe it, please tell me there’s a home video or something because that’s just _golden_!”

“Shut up and drink your cocoa...” Derek mumbled as Stiles continued to splutter helplessly.

“Ahaha, ahah...ah, my _siddddeees_!”

Nabbing a stray blanket Derek tucked himself away so only his scowl brows were protruding.

Once Stiles had settled down, Derek tentatively emerged – creeping forwards towards his phone on the table whilst his companion tried to subdue his giggling. Holding up a finger in request for quiet, Derek tapped his phone and held it to his ear.

“Hey Chris,” he began. “...Yep I found him.”

There was a pause. Derek’s eyes wandered back to him as Chris replied.

“Well he wasn’t but he is now. If you hadn’t warned me...I’m not so sure.”

Chris must have said something funny because Derek barked out a laugh.

“Yeah, I’ll tell him. Thanks. Bye.” Derek hung up and Stiles fidgeted uncomfortably.

“Sooo...?” he probed.

“Chris said to tell you that for someone so fucking smart you sure do act like a dim-witted dishrag a hell of a lot of the time.”

Derek waited for the words to settle in. Stiles frowned at him.

 _“’Dim-witted dishrag?’”_ He echoed whilst Derek mumbled something like _‘of course that’s what you focus on’_ but, come-on; that alliteration was ridiculous and Stiles doubted there could even be such a thing as a _witty_ dishrag anyhow so there was mute point really.

“He _also_ said all club memberships for the ‘guilt-ridden hermits’ have been taken so you need to grow a pair, stop with the pity party and stick your blame somewhere useful rather than up your own ass where it makes everyone feel uncomfortable.”

Stiles blinked in stunned silence for a moment.

“Well then,” he put the mug down and clasped his hands together decisively. “I think we can all agree that the important lesson here is that Chris Argent should be kept away from Merlot at all times unless we all want to die from a sass overdose-”

“Stiles, this isn’t the time for joking,” Derek growled, eyes flashing beta blue. “You took a nap in the middle of a snow storm – a _snow storm_ Stiles! What the hell were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed!”

“Well maybe that wouldn’t have been such a bad thing now _would it?!”_ Stiles snapped.

The man beside him froze. A hushed silence fell across the room.

“You don’t mean that,” Derek breathed once he dared to break it. “You can’t really mean that Stiles.”

“I don’t know,” shrugged Stiles. “Sounds like it’d be much simpler for everyone involved. No more Stiles to worry about, to pick up his slack and make sure he doesn’t get possessed by a Japanese demon again.”

Derek growled in frustration. “That wasn’t. Your. _Fault.”_

“Yes. It. _Was_.” Stiles growled back. “Why do you think the Nogistune picked me huh?” He tapped his chest aggressively for emphasis. “Because I was an easy target! Weak, pathetic, gawky little Stiles tagging along with the wolf pack for kicks because he’s got nowhere else to go. And _don’t-_ ”

Stiles held up a finger as Derek’s mouth opened to interject.

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me otherwise because the damn thing spent every day telling me that’s _exactly_ why he picked me and when he wasn’t telling me _that_ he was telling me how he was going to make me kill you, each and every one of you – how it’d feel when the life left each body, as each of you died by my hand and how it’d keep getting easier and easier until eventually I’d enjoy it, _hell,_ even take pleasure in it because in those last few seconds I’d feel closer to each of you than I ever could in life because....” Stiles gave Derek a watery smile that stretched jagged and broken across his cheeks. “Because I’m just _Stiles_. Stiles the token human who everyone keeps around to crack a joke now and then to break the tension because that’s all he’s good for...all _I’m_ good for.”

Derek made that pained noise again that made him sound like he was constipated. The man shuffled closer to Stiles, tugging the boy back when he attempted to unravel and slink away.

“Stop it Stiles, just, _just_ look at me, alright?”

Huffing in half-hearted protest Stiles begrudgingly gave the man his full attention. The eyebrow ferrets were soft and light now, lifting to reveal Derek’s naturally coloured eyes in all their sorrowful sympathy. Stiles was at least thankful they showed sympathy rather than pity or he’d have crawled out of the loft as fast as his numb limbs could carry him.

Sympathy he could handle. Pity was a different matter entirely.

“I’ve dealt with guilt for a long time Stiles,” Derek began, taking in a deep breath. “When my....after the fire happened I was in a bad place,  
  
 _Understandably._ Thought Stiles but couldn’t bring himself to interrupt.

“Laura and I were up for counselling. She didn’t need it, she was tough and her main concern was protecting me anyhow but...I was riddled with guilt. I’d been the one to let Kate in, to trust her...” Derek swallowed harshly. “To _love_ her. I was so blind and it cost my family their lives and for those bare few who remained, their sanity.”

Stiles still remembered how Peter had looked in the hospital. He thought about it every time the man flashed him that devilish smile, often wondering how a man so broken hid it so well.

“I wanted to punish myself,” Derek admitted, eyes dropping to the floor shamefully. “I couldn’t kill myself – it’d be too easy and I couldn’t bare Laura going through any more pain. ...But I began burning myself. Slowly. Repeatedly. To make myself know what they went through and to never forget the suffering I caused.”

Derek swallowed again, wringing his hands. Stiles placed a hand on his arm, trying to show him it was okay and he received a thankful smile in return.

“Eventually she found out,” he continued. “Laura I mean.” A small laugh escaped his lips. “She screamed at me for an entire hour non-stop before literally dragging me away to my therapist and demanding she do something.”

He smiled.

“Of course, werewolf healing meant no evidence was visible and the woman was in half a mind to sign up Laura for a session herself. In the end though, she listened and began to help me. She explained how the grief was crushing enough without the abundance of guilt piled over the top and she was right...but I still didn’t go to any more sessions. Instead I pushed it down, turning my guilt into rage and letting it fuel my power. Anchoring me until I felt so distant from myself I could barely remember what I’d been like before the fire.”

Derek finally met Stiles’ gaze.

“That’s when you met me of course, when I was still in the...distant stage.”

“ _Distant?_ Dude you were relentlessly creeping in the shadows in the dead of night!” Stiles snorted, trying to lighten the mood. “And as I recall you were always shoving me into shit and threatening to rip my throat out with your teeth...”

He got the desired effect as Derek cracked a smile, almost nostalgic in likeness.

“I seem to remember I was held in much higher regard back then,” he muttered.

“If by ‘high regard’ you mean all-feared and a massive dick then yes, yes you were.”

“Anyway,” Derek said, kicking Stiles’ leg playfully. “What I’m trying to say is that changed when I found something else to focus on. Focusing on my pack - on you guys - changed me. It put things into perspective and....although it wasn’t easy I just stopped punishing myself. I still feel responsible, of course I do, but I realise punishing myself will in turn, punish others because I’ll be too busy being self-destructive to make a difference and help people who need it.”

Derek touched his arm lightly and squeezed.

“What I’m saying is Stiles, sometimes, it’s better for everyone if you just...let the guilt go.”

Stiles bit his lip, keeping silent for around half a second and letting the words roll around in his head.

“Thanks Derek,” he said after a moment, looking up at the werewolf gratefully. “I mean that, really...thanks. I’ll...I’ll try and do that.”

“We’ll be here to help you,” Derek squeezed his arm again as a sign of reassurance. “You’re pack Stiles. You’re family. Please don’t ever forget that.”

Stiles nodded, not quite ready to respond verbally just yet. Derek would hear the lie in his voice if he agreed so for now deflection was the better option, at least until he started believing that for himself.

And so with that in mind...  
“Hey Derek?”

“Hmm?”

“Not to ruin the moment and all; that heartfelt speech was lovely and everything I swear, really powerful bonding stuff I mean wow, good just buddy but...one tiny, little itty bitty thing?”

The werewolf sighed in a prolonged fashion, sounding much put upon.

“What Stiles?” he muttered through clenched teeth, steeling himself for inevitable irritation.

“I just...I mean...”

“Spit it _out_.”

“’Let the guilt _go_ ’? Like, you’re literally telling me to ‘let it _go_ ’?!”

Stiles’ tried to flail his arms to emphasise his words but the blanket cocoon in which he was trapped restricted his movements. He flapped about helplessly like a bird drowning in treacle.

Derek raised an eyebrow at his strange arm activity, as if by looking after Stiles he’d been charged with caring for a mental patient (which, to be fair, probably wasn’t far from the truth, Stiles had to admit, even the blanket acted as a form of straight jacket).

Derek sighed again, impossibly, for a longer stretch of time.

“Yes Stiles. Why, is that a problem?”

Stiles blinked in disbelief.

“Dude, you found me in a snowstorm. In _snow._ I was practically _frozen_!”

“Thank-you for reminding me, yes, I found you half-dead lying in the snow I know Stiles – _I was there!”_

“No – don’t you get it?”

The fuzzy eyebrows of judgey doom made yet another appearance. A sure sign Derek’s patience was wearing thin.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “For the love of- as in ‘Frozen’? The _Disney_ movie?”

Derek regarded him suspiciously, probably considering how many of Stiles’ brain cells died off in the cold.

“Seriously, _dude_ ,” Stiles shook his head. “Do you even watch Disney, I mean, who doesn’t watch Disney? That’s a crime against childhood I’m gonna say. Derek, come on, talk to me man – _Disney_?”

“I...uh...”

Stiles threw his hands in the air in exasperation.

“Right, we need a pack Disney day immediately – I’m not kidding!” he added when Derek’s bewildered expression stayed put, as if he wasn’t sure how they got here.

“We need to make a list; Scott and Kira have gotta have _‘The Fox and the Hound’_ , the joke’s too good for them not to. If Peter’s coming _‘The Lion King’_ is definitely in order,” Stiles snorted. “He’ll probably relate to Scar on an emotional level, betcha any money he’ll be humming _‘Be Prepared’_ for weeks on end afterwards.”

Stiles clicked his fingers and broke into a wide grin, pointing at Derek.

“I’ve got just the thing, oh my god – I’m thinking you’ll like ‘Balto’ – and no, I don’t mean _‘Bolt’_ ugh,” he rolled his eyes in disgust. _“_ I mean frickin’ _‘Balto’_! I know it’s not strictly Disney but-”

“Balto?” Derek’s eyes lit up. “That was my favourite film as a kid,”

Stiles’ entire face lit up in response.

“ _Seriously?_ Me too man, no way!” Stiles’ laughter broke happily. “You know it was based on a true story?”

Derek nodded enthusiastically.

“I adored that film, especially the fact that Balto looked like a wolf,” he admitted, sounding uncharacteristically shy. “The fact he was a hero and saved all those kids was just...” He shrugged, grinning at the memory.

 _“Awww!”_ Stiles leant over to lightly cuff him on the arm. “Lil’ Derek wanted to grow up to be Balto! Dude, that’s adorable.”

“Shut up.” Derek mumbled self-consciously.

“No, no, I’m being serious – that dog was an A* role model, good for you! Personally, I was aspiring to be more like the sassy polar bear.”

“The annoying one?” Derek chimed in. “Well congratulations Stiles, you got there.”

_“Hey!”_

Derek was grinning so hard Stiles thought his face would crack. The contrast to the usual sullen sour wolf expression was astonishing. Stiles had never seen Derek smile like this without him acting or being painfully sarcastic. It was like sunshine breaking through rain clouds.

Regrettably, he toned it down after a moment; mouth closing on his dazzling grin but barely holding it all in, as if now he’d started he found it difficult to stop. Making up for lost smile-time perhaps.

Derek looked up at Stiles, eyes smirking as well as his mouth.

“You know though,” he pondered. “I would have pegged you as a Robin Hood wannabe.”

“Really?” Stiles asked. “You mean the fox one right? The hot one?”

“Stiles, he was a fox. You’re telling me you found a cartoon fox _‘hot’_?”

“Yeah and you’re _technically_ a wolf but you’re still smokin’. I mean, you know,” Stiles hurriedly began backtracking now Derek’s eyebrows had risen fractionally towards their _‘oh really? Let me take notes on this valuable information so I can use it against Stiles in the future’_ level. “Until you open your mouth and threaten everything in a five mile radius, I mean, strictly objectively of course. No need to feed that ego you got buildin’ up there buddy, being humble is the greatest charm I’ll have you know.”

“Ah yes Stiles, and that’s why you’re always so modest.”

“Damn right I am.” He was struck by a sudden idea. “Hey, do you reckon Chris could come to Disney day? I think it’d do him good to be surrounded by people rather than wine bottles, you know?”

Derek looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded.

“Yeah, I think that’d be good for him too.” He agreed, more readily than Stiles was actually expecting. Huh.

“Great,” Stiles smiled. “I mean, I know there’s the whole werewolf-hunter thing and the Hale-Argent thing but he’s a good guy you know? Have you ever just sat down and spoken to him?”

Derek nodded.

“We got to know each other better whilst you were...” he trailed off.

“Evil?” Stiles supplemented. “Deranged? Psychotic?”

 _“Away.”_ Derek finished pointedly. “Chris and I spent a lot of time together. We came to an understanding.”

“Oh.” Stiles said. And then it dawned on him. _“Oh.”_

Derek frowned.

“What?”

“I just see now.”

“See what Stiles, I don’t understand.”

“I mean, I don’t blame you, the man’s hot but I didn’t know you swung that way, then again considering your female track record...”

“Stiles what...” Derek’s eyes bulged. _“What?! No Stiles!”_

“C’mon Derek, we’re all friends here –it’s okay, it’s natural, you deserve someone nice, he deserves someon-”

“Stiles, I am not interested in _Chris_. We’re not-” Derek shook his head, face twisted with revulsion. _“NO.”_

“Really?” Stiles tilted his head pensively. “Well, okay. But...”

 _“Stiles.”_ Derek warned.

“No, I mean...I’m not exactly suggesting that you get your horizontal groove on with Argent but-”

“WHAT?!”

“But I’m really not complaining about the mental image there, oh boy.”

Derek looked physically sick.

“I think I’m going to be physically sick.” confirmed Derek, sounding queasy. “Can we _please_ not discuss anything about Argent for the rest of the evening? We may be on good terms now but I really don’t want to think about him unclothed, thank-you Stiles. And _yes_ , I _am_ complaining about the mental image.” He added when Stiles looked like he was going to argue.

“Are you sure?” Stiles teased. “I mean, it’s not the worst prospect in the World you have to-”

“STILES!”

The younger boy threw his hands up in surrender.

“ _Okay, okay,_ dropping the subject now.”

Derek let out another lengthy sigh and collapsed, shutting his eyes against the frankly horrifying images Stiles had placed there.

He managed to stay quiet for maybe two beats.

“...You can’t deny he has a certain _appeal_ though,”

 _“Oh my god Stiles...”_ Derek threw his head into his hands.

“You know, in an older man, George Clooney DILFish type of way.”

“Remind me never to leave you alone with Chris again.” Derek’s muffled response came from his hands as he began rubbing his temples.

Stiles smirked.

“Why? Worried you’d get jealous?”

“Worried for Chris’ virtue actually.”

“ _Virtue?_ Derek – he’s Allison’s _Dad!”_

“It’s a figurative expression Stiles.”

“You’re a figurative expression.” Stiles sniped back before he could stop himself.

Derek’s eyebrows were now at the _‘did you just?’_ extra sassy level.

Stiles groaned.

_“Shut up.”_

“Didn’t say anything.” Derek shrugged, struggling to keep his face neutral.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles waved him away with his hand.

“Yeah, yeah, go on – get it out of your system, I know you want to.”

Derek’s Cheshire cat grin bit though and Stiles couldn’t dampen one of his own, even if Derek’s joy was at his own expense.

“No wonder you never smile,” Stiles muttered. “It’s too damn infectious, that shit’s like the sun but you’re all about the moon and the leather and the scowling.”

Derek shook his head, chuckling.

“You’re not making any sense.”

“That’s because I’m talking about being _happy_ – H-A-P-P-Y; happy, Derek, you should try it some time.”

“Only if you try first.” Derek countered; eyebrows in their _‘let the challenge begin’_ position.

Stiles stopped, stunned. He gawped at the wolf, eyes narrowing with scrutiny. It appears they’d come full circle.

 _“Touché.”_ Stiles lifted his cocoa in salute and took a giant gulp.

“You’ve got a froth-stache.” Derek nodded to the white coating of foam lining Stiles’ upper lip.

The boy shrugged.

“ _I’m the stubble alpha now_.” He mumbled sotto voce so Derek snorted unattractively.

“Whatever you say Stiles.”

“No sass-back to the alpha or I’ll shave your stubble _and_ your luscious brows and then where will you be? Shamefully bare-faced and communicatively at a loss without your gymnastic face-ferrets - _that’s_ where. Forced to live as a smooth-skinned mime or resort to using _words_ rather than eyebrows to speak.”

Derek raised his eyebrows and Stiles hummed around a mouthful of cocoa, pointing accusingly.

“I rest my case.” He chuckled smugly, nestling deeper into the blankets as he lapped the excess froth around the edges of the mug. Seriously, he had to get the recipe for this, good god, _literally_ cocoa heaven.

* * *

 

Stiles found he’d nodded off at some point, blinking back the recesses of sleep to find himself still cocooned in the warm blankets but lying against something warmer still. Something _breathing._

Belatedly he realised the something was Derek, head lolling on the back of the couch, eyes closed, his expression soft and strangely innocent.

Stiles couldn’t help smiling pleasantly at the sight. Derek Hale might have even been described as _cute_.

 _“Shut up.”_ Derek growled, voice groggy with sleep.

“I didn’t say anything!” Stiles replied indignantly, realising the wolf must have picked up on his accelerated heartbeat as he woke.

“Go back to sleep Stiles.” He mumbled, breathing already deepening as Derek faded back into tranquil slumber.

Stiles huffed but snuggled back up, uncaring if he wiggled a little closer to Derek. The wolf didn’t seem adverse to the action and since Stiles wasn’t currently having his throat clawed out, he counted it as a win.

As the warmth settled deep in his belly, Stiles sighed contently.

Maybe everything wasn’t okay exactly, and, if he was being honest, it probably wouldn’t be okay again for a seriously long time, if ever.

But it would get better. _He_ would get better.

With that in mind, Stiles drifted, not into _peace_ , but into stability.

Leaning on the wolf beside him, Stiles felt secure and anchored to the sure realisation that he would get through the passing storm and the storms that had yet to come...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really wanted to sing 'Lean on me, when you're not stronggggg, I'll be your friend, I'll help you caaarrryy oonnn' when Stiles leans on Derek at the end. Aw.  
> This can be interpretted as romantic, the beginings of romance or just friendship, I don't mind. I personally ship Sterek till the end of all things but I seriously doubt Jeff's gonna let any of that fly in the series, so *shrugs* at least it will live on in fanfiction. But it isn't right he's cut the Stiles and Derek intereaction right off in the show because even just as friends, the dynamics between them are just too great man.  
> Short rant over. Hope y'all liked the fic :)  
> Oh and btw, I would recomend Balto to anyone, it was my childhood film and it's probably one of the first things that got me obsessed with dogs and wolves. I like to think Derek and Stiles would have loved it too. My second favourite was Robin Hood and, ehem...admittedly I did find Robin rather attractive in fox-form (although if anyone's seen the BBC tv show I was much more of a Gisborne fangirl myself, hot damn Richard Armitage)


End file.
